Some summer flowers have yet to die,
Such a miracle to innocent eyes.
Though my scarred flesh cares to wonder,
What sort of life they had.

T'was it an empty one?
With no true purpose at all,
Except catching a young girl's eye,
And coming home to live in her ***.

Someday these flowers will be nothing but hanging carcasses,
A looming reminder that time will pass.
When they do finally fade,
The first tear of winter may be shed.